


The Making of a Rogue Demon Hunter

by Lefaym



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-17
Updated: 2010-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is determined to unlock the secrets of the enigmatic Cardiff Hellmouth--but Jack Harkness has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Making of a Rogue Demon Hunter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



> Thanks to 51stcenturyfox on LJ for the beta and smirnoffmule on LJ for the secondary read-through.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce stepped onto the platform at Cardiff Central with his back straight and his head held high. He breathed deeply and then regretted it when he remembered that the humidity here was so much thicker than in LA. He swallowed hard and tried not to choke. Choking was undignified, and a Watcher always maintained his dignity.

_Former Watcher_, a small voice in his head reminded him, but Wesley pushed it away. He would be a Watcher again, he told himself firmly. More than that—he'd be honoured by the Watchers' Council itself, when he delivered the Cardiff Hellmouth into their hands. Perhaps his father would come out of retirement to pin the medal onto his chest personally. On that day, the blunders and follies of his time in Sunnydale would be forgiven, and wiped from the records.

Wesley smiled at the thought, and then squawked indignantly as a small child ran into him, causing him to lose his balance. He felt his back come into contact with the hard platform and he heard the sound of his suitcase hitting the ground beside him. For a moment, he lay there, stunned, but soon his need to reprimand the child took over.

"You stupid child!" he said, as he pulled himself into a sitting position. "Do you realise what you could have done? I have some very sensitive equipment in—"

He stopped short when he realised that the child was nowhere to be seen. He stood, muttering about lack of discipline, and allowed himself a moment of quiet relief when he realised that his old and battered suitcase hadn't sprung open. He'd have a hard time explaining some of its contents to the station attendants, after all. And without the Watchers' Council to back him up, he'd be in for a rather unpleasant time of it.

Wesley pushed his way through the crowd of people and made his way off the platform, towards a small tourist shop. He purchased a map of Cardiff city, which was covered in information about the redevelopment of the Oval Basin for the upcoming new millennium, and then folded it out, trying to locate the hotel he'd booked from London. As he scanned his eyes across the warren of streets that made up central Cardiff, he made note of which seemed the most likely haunts for vampires and other demonic beings.

Still, he could do nothing about his mission until he got himself settled. A cup of tea and a nice bath would be just the things to get him in the mood for a spot of demon hunting. Finally locating his hotel on the map, Wesley picked up his suitcase again and set off.

Half an hour later, with sweat trickling uncomfortably down his back, Wesley admitted to himself that the hotel was further away than he'd anticipated, and he found himself wishing he'd spared the expense for a taxi. He also wished that he'd actually seen a picture of the hotel before he'd made the booking. "The Rudgate Arms" had sounded rather grand to Wesley back in London, but when he turned the corner that brought it into view, he realised that it was nothing more than a local pub with a couple of rooms to spare.

There was nothing to be done about it now, however, and Wesley reminded himself that those who would be Watchers must be willing to suffer for their calling, even if that meant—as Wesley discovered once he had his key—staying in a room with a broken kettle and a bathless bathroom that barely had room for a tiny lukewarm shower with no water pressure.

He tried to complain, of course, but the landlord seemed indifferent to Wesley's suffering, and he was large and red-headed enough that Wesley thought it best not to create a fuss. After all, he needed to save his energy for later. Deciding at last to forgo cleanliness and tea, Wesley settled onto the squeaky bed and made a more detailed study of the map.

Wesley had brought with him the little information that the Watchers had been able to gather on the Cardiff Hellmouth, and that was precious little. It was a well known and little discussed fact that the Watchers were under strict order from above—some said even from Her Majesty herself—to avoid Cardiff, much to the frustration of the Council. They had nonetheless tried—and failed—to make contact with whomever it was that controlled the demonic beings that troubled the city, because everyone involved in that sort of business should rightfully be under the jurisdiction of the Watchers, but in spite of their best attempts, Watchers who made their way into the city tended to return with missing limbs—if they returned at all.

Well, that was all about to end, Wesley told himself, as he marked the map with a Sharpie. He, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, would see to that.

After an hour or so of studying, Wesley noticed that many of the more recent known demon attacks had taken place near Cardiff Bay, and although he was loath to go out again, he knew that he needed to get started as quickly as possible. He changed his clothes, putting on a crisp white suit—because it was always easier to do well when one was neatly attired—and selected a crossbow and a stake from his suitcase, both small enough to be concealed within his jacket.

Darkness had fallen since Wesley had booked himself into his room, and the temperature had cooled slightly, although the humidity from the unusual heat wave was still oppressive. He stopped briefly to buy himself some chips, because he hadn't eaten since the morning, and he ate them as he walked, careful not to spill any and stain his clothes.

By the time he reached the Bay, the area was awash with teenagers and university students making the most of their Saturday night. Several of them looked at him strangely, and a girl with pink hair called out to him; he didn't quite hear what she said, but he suspected that it wasn't particularly polite. Uncivilised ruffians, the lot of them. He wondered for a moment if he'd be able to tell them apart from the demons that undoubtedly lurked through Cardiff's streets.

After an hour, Wesley realised that he couldn't keep waiting for the demons to come to him, so he decided to expand his search into the surrounding streets. He tried to follow his map for a while, but the damned thing was so cumbersome that he soon gave up on it; he'd let himself wander, Wesley decided. It would be easy enough to determine his location once he'd located the nearest hives of demon activity.

Two hours later, Wesley was beginning to doubt his wisdom. It's not that he was _lost_, exactly, it was more that he'd need to ask for a lot of directions to find his way back to the hotel. Of course, Wesley hated to ask, so he decided to wander for a bit longer.

The rain caught him by surprise. The sky had been clear earlier, but in the darkness, he hadn't noticed the clouds gathering above the city. With a sigh, Wesley realised that he would have to capitulate, just this once. He shuddered as he thought of entering one of the loud nightclubs pounding out something that could barely be called music, but he remembered that he'd seen an all-hours convenience store that was still open the next street over, and decided that he would take a shortcut through a nearby alleyway.

The alley was deserted but for a rather tall thin man wearing a hooded coat. Wesley nodded as he passed, and he only noticed that the eyes beneath the hood were glowing a strange inhuman purple just in time. He managed to duck as a clawed hand reached out for his neck, and he aimed a punch at the creature's mid-section, which felt unpleasantly squishy, even through the coat.

"I advise you to surrender," said Wesley. "If you fight, this will only be more painful to you."

Wesley had barely had time to feel the glow of success—surely he was close to finding the Hellmouth now—when he found himself pinned against the wall, the creature's claws at his throat. Wesley could feel warm liquid trickling down his neck, and he knew that it had drawn blood.

The demon made an incomprehensible guttural noise, and Wesley kicked out at it—or he tried to, anyway. Even Wesley had to admit to himself that it looked more like flailing than any serious attempt at violence. The creature growled and Wesley shut his eyes tightly and prepared himself to receive a mortal blow.

Before the blow arrived, however, Wesley heard two gunshots and he found himself falling to the ground. He was dimly aware of the demon falling away in the opposite direction, and what he thought might be a rush of footsteps. He could only hope they were human.

"Need a hand up there?" said a man's deep voice with an American accent.

Wesley opened his eyes to see a tall dark-haired man in a long grey military coat standing over him, with an arm extended.

"I'll be quite all right standing up on my own," Wesley assured him, but when he tried to get to his feet, he found that his legs didn't want to carry his weight, and somehow, he ended up grasping for the man's hand anyway.

"There you go," the man said, as Wesley managed to find his balance. He didn't let go of his hand, however. "I'm Captain Jack Harkness," the man continued, as though this was a normal way to meet people.

Wesley swallowed the retort that he wanted to make; it would never do for him to forget his manners. "I'm Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," he said, only a little stiffly.

"Nice to meet you, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce," the man replied, winking—actually _winking_—at him. "Seems like you were in a bit of trouble there."

Wesley pulled himself up to his full height. "I had the situation under control," he said, trying to muster as much confidence as possible. "Really, you shouldn't have interfered. I have been trained extensively in the art of demon hunting, and an amateur like yourself could have been hurt quite severely."

The man—this Captain Jack Harkness—laughed, rather harder than was necessary. "You think this is a _demon_?"

For the first time since he'd stood, Wesley allowed himself to look over at the fallen creature. He saw two bullet wounds in its legs, oozing some kind of green goo. Wesley wrinkled his nose when the smell hit him, but he didn't have long to dwell on it, because moments later, the creature's arms began to twitch, and it lifted its head.

"Stand back!" Wesley cried out, pushing Jack away.

He jumped forward, pulling his stake from his jacket as he did so. Behind him he felt Jack make a grab for him, but Wesley was too fast.

"Wesley, no!" he heard Jack yell.

Wesley paid him no mind as he plunged his stake through the demon's coat and into its soft, sticky centre. It stopped twitching, and Wesley stood up, victorious.

"You failed to deal it a mortal wound, I'm afraid," he told Jack.

"You idiot!" Jack took a step closer to him, and Wesley was surprised to see that he was enraged. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I," said Wesley, looking Jack in the eye, "have just killed this beast."

"This beast," said Jack, from between gritted teeth, "is a Xanathador. And we need to get out of here, because you've just activated the regenerative gland in its stomach."

"Oh." Under the circumstances, it was all Wesley could think to say.

Before he had the chance to recover his wits, Wesley heard a mangled roar behind him, and the expression on Jack's face turned from anger to alarm.

"Wesley, move!" Jack said, but it was too late.

Wesley felt something slash his left arm, he knew he was falling, and then everything went black.

***  
***

Wesley woke to the sound of a car screeching outside, splitting his head open. He opened his eyes only to become aware of the fact that he was lying in a strange bed, in a strange flat that he'd never seen before, with a man looming over him.

It took Wesley a moment to recognise Captain Jack Harkness with his blurry vision, but when he did, the night's events all came back to him in a flash.

"I demand that you unhand me," Wesley said. He frowned, wishing that his voice hadn't sounded so dry and scratchy. It was so difficult to sound authoritative sometimes.

Jack smiled down at him. "I haven't got you in hand," he said. "Though I don't think you're ready to get out of bed just yet."

Wesley tried to clear his throat. "My health is of no importance," he said. "Not when there's a demon on the loose. We must—"

"Like I said before, it wasn't a demon," said Jack, interrupting him.

Wesley spluttered and tried to pull himself up onto his elbows. "Of course—of course it was a demon!" he said. "What else would it be?" He shook his head as purple spots began to dance in front of his eyes.

"Don't worry about that right now. First, have something to drink." Jack motioned towards the bedside table, and through the dots, Wesley saw a bottle of water.

Slowly, Wesley sat up, wincing as a skewer seemed to pierce his head. He took a sip of water and closed his eyes, and eventually he began to feel better. When he opened his eyes again, Wesley tried to observe the room around him, squinting to make things clearer.

"I think you might be needing these," said Jack, holding out Wesley's spectacles.

"Thank you," said Wesley. He was relieved to find that his voice sounded stronger than it had before.

Wesley put his glasses on and took in the room. He appeared to be in a flat of some kind—more of a studio, really. The furniture was modern, sleek and impersonal; whoever owned this place didn't seem to spend much time here.

"Is this your place?" Wesley asked.

"I use it from time to time," said Jack.

Wesley looked down at his left forearm, which was wrapped tightly in a bandage. "I supposed you did this?"

"I've got a little bit of experience in field surgery."

"Are you a doctor?" Wesley asked.

A strange look passed over Jack's face. "I wish," he said. The expression passed and he continued. "The cut wasn't bad; it just needed a little cleaning. The bump on your head had me worried for a bit, but I'll keep my eye on you."

"I probably should have it seen to," Wesley said, more because he wanted to get out of this place and find out where he was than because he actually wanted to spend time in A&amp;E.

"You might find those scratches on your arm a little difficult to explain to a regular doctor," Jack told him. "And, well—I could take you to a doctor who understands, but for some reason, I think you don't want that."

"Why would that be?"

"He'd probably be a little too interested in you," said Jack ominously.

Wesley didn't like the sound of that, and as his head began to clear, he decided that a firm approach was best. "I think I should go," he said. "I can take care of myself, thank you."

Jack laughed. "Take care of yourself? Is that what you were doing a couple of hours ago, in that alleyway?"

"I could have managed it," Wesley insisted.

"Yeah, right."

"What was that thing, anyway? If it wasn't a demon, as you claim—"

Jack raised a hand and cut him off. "Later," he said. "Before that, I have some questions for you."

"What sort of questions?"

"Well, first I'd like to know why I've got a cute young ex-Watcher in my territory determined to commit suicide."

Wesley felt his mouth drop open, but he quickly closed it again. "I—I—I am not _cute_," he said.

"Oh, really?" Jack raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, really," said Wesley. "Anyway," he continued, trying not to sound as flustered as he felt, "how did you know—the Watchers, I mean—"

Jack looked to the other side of the room; Wesley followed his gaze and saw a laptop sitting on a glass coffee table.

"I know how to do my research," Jack said.

Wesley frowned. "I could have you arrested for hacking into highly classified files, I'll have you know."

Jack looked at him. "How do you know that I don't have full access already, Wesley?"

"It's illegal."

"Not for me, it isn't." Jack's smile hovered on the verge of pleasant and menacing. "Anyway, you haven't answered my question. Why are you trying to get yourself killed here?"

"I have no intention of getting myself killed."

"Huh."

"I have no idea why you would make that assumption."

Jack gave him a sceptical half-smile. "Well, let's see now. A Watcher who's been recently expelled from his order makes his way to Cardiff, a place where Watchers far more experienced than you haven't had a great survival rate. Believe me, I've seen soldiers looking to go out in a blaze of glory before, and I know what I'm looking at."

Wesley's first instinct was to make a vehement protest, but somehow he found himself swallowing instead. "I—" Wesley's voice shook far more than he would have liked. "I assure you, in this instance, you are wrong," he managed finally.

"You all right, Wes?"

"Of—of course I'm all right! Your ludicrous suggestions simply surprised me."

"Ludicrous. Right."

Wesley pulled himself into a proper sitting position and looked Jack in the eye. "I simply came here to investigate the Cardiff Hellmouth," he said.

Jack laughed again. "I'll tell you a secret," he said.

"Oh?"

Jack leaned in towards him. "There is no Cardiff Hellmouth."

"Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

Wesley decided to ignore that question. "The Watchers' Council may not have all that much information on Cardiff," Wesley said, "but Hellmouth activity here has been apparent for millennia."

"It's not a Hellmouth," Jack said. "It's a Rift in time and space that leads to other worlds. That thing you mistook for a demon? It was an alien. Nothing supernatural about it."

"That's—that's preposterous!" said Wesley. "Completely impossible. You've clearly made some sort of mistake."

"I don't make mistakes like that," said Jack.

"But—"

"Look," said Jack. "The Rift emits some kind of energy that repels demons—it's dangerous to them somehow. And that's lucky, because we've got our hands full dealing with the creatures it does send through to us. I promise you, that was no demon earlier."

"I don't believe it." Wesley straightened his shoulders and looked Jack in the eye.

"You really don't want to argue with me on this one," Jack said. "Right now, I'm far more concerned about the Xanathador that you unloosed onto the city a few hours ago. And its mate."

"It has a mate?"

"We're lucky that that's all it has. Usually, if you piss a Xanathador off, they return to the scene of the insult with a whole army. Fortunately for us, this one got sucked through the Rift with only its mate for company. Still, they're going to do some major damage tomorrow night if we don't stop them."

"What sort of damage?"

"Oh, blood, mayhem. The usual," Jack said.

"I—I see."

"Now, I could call in some friends of mine," Jack continued. "Though friends isn't really the right word for it—they're more people I work with sometimes."

"People who know about these—uh—aliens?"

"They're people like that doctor I could've taken you to. They'd know how to get rid of the Xanathador—but they'd probably do a pretty good job of getting rid of you in the process."

"Ah. I assume you have an alternative?" Wesley asked.

"The alternative, Wes, is that you and I take them out tomorrow night. They'll wait a little while before they return—the one we saw earlier will still be healing—but come nightfall tomorrow, no one in that area will be safe."

"You can rely on me," said Wesley, trying to sound as grand as possible.

Jack looked at him sharply. "You'd better be sure that I can," he said. "Tomorrow night, you need to do exactly as I say. No funny business, no heroics. And if you can't agree to that—if you can't _do_ that—then I'll call in those people I know."

Something told Wesley that Jack wasn't joking. He swallowed. "I agree," he said, surprised at how small his voice sounded suddenly.

To Wesley's surprise, Jack stepped forward and sat down on the bed, so that their eyes were level.

"Er—is everything okay?" Wesley asked.

"I'm gonna make sure you survive this, Wesley," Jack said. "There's an awful lot you could do with your life, and I have no intention of letting you throw all that away here, no matter how much you might want to."

"I told you, I have no intention—"

Wesley stopped short when he felt Jack's hand cover his own.

"Like I said earlier, I've seen it before," Jack said. "You may dress it up in your mind as a quest for love and glory, you may tell yourself that you'll come out the other side, but deep down you know that it's not gonna happen."

Wesley felt his stomach clench. "Even if that was true, why would you care?"

Jack was silent for a long moment. "Because I used to be that person, Wes. A long time ago."

"You survived."

Now it was Jack's turn to swallow. "Yeah," he said. "I still don't know how I managed that."

Wesley bit down on his lower lip as the image of his father pinning a medal to his chest became the image of his father delivering a eulogy. The two images flicked back and forth in Wesley's mind, blurring into each other far more easily than they should.

"You're quite wrong about me," Wesley said. He still had his pride, after all.

"I hope I am," said Jack.

Jack stood, and Wesley felt a very strange tingle of regret as the other man's hand pulled away from him. The air seemed very cold all of a sudden.

"Right." Jack looked down at Wesley, his face all business. "You need rest. Tomorrow we plan, and then we'll take this thing out."

Wesley nodded, once. "Right," he agreed. "Tomorrow."

***  
***

Wesley took a deep breath and tried to convince himself that he was _not_ feeling nervous as he and Jack approached the alleyway. He had, after all, faced down opponents plenty of times. Well, a few times, anyway—and not always in controlled conditions either, not after Sunnydale.

He smoothed down his suit with his free hand—a fresh one, retrieved from his room at The Rudgate Arms a few hours ago—and took comfort in the feel of the soft wool beneath his fingertips. His other hand held his crossbow, loaded and ready to aim

"Remember what I told you," said Jack, in a low voice. "You let me take the lead. We aim for the legs first, and then the head. Need to take all three out to kill these things. And don't do anything stupid."

Wesley opened his mouth to protest at that last direction, but then thought better of it. This was hardly the place to get into an argument. "I won't let you down," he said instead.

Jack caught his eye and nodded.

Wesley held his breath as they crept into the alley, but everything was quiet. No aliens, and thankfully, no people either. After half a minute, Jack pulled him behind a large garbage disposal unit, which belonged to one of the restaurants that backed onto this tiny strip. Wesley tried not to wrinkle his nose at the smell of rotting meat.

"Okay," Jack whispered. "Keep quiet and be still."

There wasn't much space behind the large metal bin, and Wesley could feel Jack pressed up against him. He thought it should be uncomfortable, but there was something steady and reliable about Jack's calm, even breathing. Wesley's heartbeat slowed, and after a few minutes, he almost felt bored.

The battle began suddenly. One moment, all was quiet, and the next, Jack was jumping out from behind the disposal unit with a roar, his pistol firing twice in rapid succession. Wesley felt adrenalin surge through his body and he followed Jack out of their hiding place.

One of the Xanathadors—the one they'd encountered the previous evening—was staggering from a new set of bullet wounds in its legs, and before Wesley could even raise his crossbow, a third bullet entered its skull, and it fell to the ground with a thud.

It was only then that Wesley truly registered the size of the other creature. The remaining Xanathador was considerably wider and at least a foot taller than its fallen mate. A mangled bellow ripped from its lungs at the sight of its dead partner, and Wesley knew immediately that this one would be much more difficult to take down.

Two more bullets fired from Jack's pistol, but only one wound appeared in the creature's leg, and that particular injury didn't seem to slow it down at all. It closed in on Jack, and Jack fired again, sending a bullet into its upper thigh. Jack raised his gun again, and then—nothing.

Wesley barely had time to register that Jack was out of bullets before he saw the Xanathador slash a razor-sharp claw across his throat. A fountain of blood spurted from Jack's severed arteries, and Wesley heard himself scream as he saw Jack slump to the ground, lifeless.

All at once, time seemed to move slowly. As Wesley felt the last of the air leave his lungs, a cold-minded clarity swept over him, and when he drew breath again, he raised his crossbow to the creature's head, and fired, not even caring that the Xanathador was almost upon him, its clawed hand darting out towards him.

The crossbow bolt tore through the alien's face at the same moment that its claw pierced Wesley's abdomen. The Xanathador fell backwards, and Wesley screamed again as the claw pulled back past his ragged nerves. And then Wesley himself was slumping back against the alley wall, all strength gone out of him. There was a lot of blood, he realised, and not all of it was Jack's. He couldn't move.

He couldn't even cry out for help.

_So this is what dying feels like_, Wesley thought to himself. He wondered if his father really would be proud. Maybe he'd just be even more disappointed than he already was. His stupid son, running off on a stupid fool's errand, stupid child, bringing shame on his family all over again.

Wesley's vision began to blur, and his breathing became even more difficult; he could hear the air rattling in his lungs. The end was only seconds away, Wesley was sure of it. He could see Jack's face swimming before his eyes, and that was impossible because Jack was dead. Wesley wondered if it was Jack's spirit, come to draw him away from his body.

"I don't want to die," Wesley said, his words barely more than a choked whisper. They seemed to cost him more effort than anything he'd ever done in his life.

"I'm not going to let you," said Jack.

It was the strangest thing, then, because Jack seemed to be kissing him, his mouth warm and firm on Wesley's. The warmth spread throughout Wesley's body, taking the pain away, and Wesley found himself thinking that death was a lot more pleasant than he'd thought it would be. He found himself responding to Jack's kiss, giving himself over to it, because if this was death, he'd accept it, he was ready to go where it took him.

Of course, Jack chose that moment to pull away from him, and Wesley realised then that he was very much alive. He pressed his fingers against his abdomen, and found his skin smooth and unscarred, although his shirt was still torn and soaked with his own blood. Jack's shirt, too, was a bloody mess, but the skin on his neck showed no sign that it had been sliced open—that his head had been half-severed—only minutes before.

"How—"

"No time for that now," Jack said. "We've gotta get out of here."

"The bodies?" Wesley asked.

"They'll disintegrate," said Jack. "A nice little quirk of Xanathador biology. But a couple of guys covered in blood always raise questions, and I like to avoid questions."

As he spoke, Jack stood and started buttoning up his greatcoat to cover his ruined shirt. The coat itself hadn't escaped the blood, of course, but under the cover of darkness, the dark grey wool hid the nature of the stains. Wesley followed Jack's lead, scrambling to his feet and buttoning his own jacket; he was glad that he'd pulled a dark suit from his suitcase earlier.

"Come on," Jack said, grabbing Wesley's elbow and guiding him out of the alleyway.

Wesley followed automatically. Jack seemed to know all the darkest backstreets that would take them back to the studio flat, and Wesley let his mind switch off, all of his thoughts shying away from his close brush with death and centring on the steady warmth of Jack's hand on his arm.

He almost protested when Jack pulled his hand away after they reached the unit complex in which Jack's flat was located. Even through the fabric of his suit, Wesley's arm felt cold, and it suddenly seemed a lot more difficult to avoid thinking about the way the Xanathador's claw had felt as it pierced his stomach.

When they stepped into the lift, the smell of drying blood became overwhelming, and Wesley pressed his lips together.

"You okay, Wes?"

Wesley didn't think he had it left in him to pretend (not that he was in the habit of pretending, he told himself). "I—I need a shower," he managed.

Jack nodded. "Not long now," he said, squeezing Wesley's shoulder.

Wesley nodded, thankful for the brief touch. It was enough to get him out of the lift and into the flat without falling down, at least.

He was in the bathroom before Jack was fully inside the flat. Before he was completely aware of what was happening, Wesley found himself kneeling over the toilet, retching bile into the smooth white bowl. Distantly, he felt glad that he'd somehow managed to lock the bathroom door behind him. If he was sure of anything, it was that he didn't want Jack to see this.

As soon as Wesley felt his stomach settle, he tore off his suddenly too-tight clothes and tossed them in a corner where he wouldn't have to look at them. He turned on the shower, and stepped under the hot stream of water, which turned the half-dried blood that stuck to him into tiny rivulets that coursed their way down his skin.

Wesley grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed at himself until his skin was clean, and then, when the last of the blood was gone, he closed his eyes, not yet ready to step away from the cleansing flow of water. He let it flow into his mouth, washing away the taste of vomit; he let it beat hard and hot onto his body, reminding him that somehow, he was alive.

He turned the events of the evening over in his mind; the chaos of the fight, the sensation of his life spilling out from the wound in his gut, Jack's mouth on his, drawing him back, impossibly, from the brink of death. Wesley felt his cock twitch at the memory, and that, more than anything, told him that it was time to get out of the shower.

When Wesley emerged back into the studio with a towel around his waist, he saw that Jack had somehow managed to clean himself up too; he must have used the sink in the kitchenette, Wesley surmised. He wore a fresh pair of trousers, but his chest was bare, and he looked up when Wesley stepped into his field of vision.

"Feeling better?"

Wesley nodded. "Much better," he said.

"You did well tonight."

Wesley felt a thrill of pride at Jack's praise, yet somehow the urge to puff out his chest seemed to be absent. He wondered what it would be like to kiss Jack again, and then he felt his stomach jolt; why would he even think of doing such a thing?

It was almost as though Jack had some sort of mystical power that—

Wesley's breath caught. "How—how is that we're still alive?" He forced himself to breathe in. "What are you?"

He'd only ever seen a vampire heal that way, but Jack couldn't be—his lips had been warm, Wesley remembered that very clearly indeed.

Jack was silent for a long moment. "Let's just say I'm lucky," he said, finally.

"You—you're not human," said Wesley.

Jack seemed to consider Wesley for a long moment, before he stepped in towards him. He took Wesley's wrist, and Wesley felt his palm placed firmly against Jack's chest.

"I'm human enough," said Jack.

Wesley could feel Jack's heartbeat, he could feel his ribcage expand as he breathed, and his skin was as warm as it had been earlier. If he was part demon—or part alien—then it was a very small part.

And now he was here, with his hand on Jack's chest, and a rather discombobulating—but not unpleasant—urge to keep it there.

"Well, whatever it was you did," said Wesley, partly to distract himself, and partly to give him an excuse not to move, "thank you."

"Like I told you before, Wes," Jack said, "I had no intention of letting you die here."

"I'm glad." Wesley thought that it really might be time to drop his hand now, but for some reason, that didn't feel like the thing to do.

Jack gave him a toothy grin. "I couldn't let a cute young guy like yourself go to waste now, could I?"

Wesley felt himself flush, and as he did, he made up his mind. Before he had time to think—before he had the chance to talk himself out of it—he stepped in closer, and pressed his lips to Jack's, as hard as he could.

When he felt Jack respond in kind, Wesley knew he had done the right thing.

A few hours later, as both of them lay spent amongst the tangled sheets, Wesley tried to edit the messy, awkward bits out of his memory, but he somehow he didn't quite manage that—and to his surprise, he found that he wasn't even all that disappointed about it. The way that their teeth had clashed together, his obvious inexperience, the way that he hadn't quite been sure what to do when Jack took his towel away and then stepped back to remove his own trousers—that was all just as much a part of it as the glorious heat of their bodies pressed together, as much a part of it as Jack's mouth on his chest, on his stomach, on his cock—and all of it, the mess, the uncertainty, the strangled cry he'd made as Jack brought him to climax—all of it felt _right_ somehow.

It had been, Wesley supposed, their way of chasing away the spectre of death that had almost claimed both of them that evening.

***  
***

Wesley hadn't asked Jack to accompany him back to Cardiff Central, but he was glad, nonetheless, when Jack offered to see him off. Cardiff had produced a few hours of sunshine, which had provided them with ample time to extract Wesley's suitcase from The Rudgate Arms before they made their way to the station.

There had never been any question in Wesley's mind about leaving. The last forty-eight hours had shown him that Cardiff wasn't the place for him, no matter how much he'd enjoyed Jack's company during the last twelve hours. For a moment, Wesley allowed himself to dwell on the horrified expression that his father would wear if he ever learned of the way his son had spent the previous night. Strangely, the thought made him smile.

Let the old man be horrified.

"Something amusing you?" Jack asked, looking across at him.

Wesley shook his head. "It's nothing," he said.

Jack raised an eyebrow, but didn't push the issue. He was in no position to press for secrets, after all, Wesley thought.

When they reached the right platform, the train was waiting, although five minutes still remained before departure. Jack looked across at Wesley, the corner of his mouth raised in a half-smile.

"So, Wes," he said, "where to now?"

"London first, obviously," said Wesley.

"And after that?"

"After that—" Wesley paused, and thought for a moment. "I'll head back to America, I suppose. It's as good a place as any, and it'll be harder for the Watchers' Council to keep an eye on me there."

"Lots of demons in America," Jack said.

Wesley nodded. "I fully intend to put a dent in them. I am highly trained in demonology and the occult, after all, and even if the Watchers don't want me—I can still do some good." He pushed away the sliver of doubt that entered his mind as he remembered his performance in Sunnydale.

Jack grinned at him. "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, Rogue Demon Hunter," he said.

"Yes." Wesley felt himself stand up a bit taller. "Rogue Demon Hunter. I like that."

"It suits you," said Jack, although his words were almost lost in a pre-recorded message that announced the train's imminent departure.

"Well," said Wesley, "I guess I should go."

Jack nodded. "Take care of yourself, Wes," he said. He placed a hand on Wesley's neck, leaned in, and kissed him gently.

"I will," Wesley promised, as Jack pulled back.

"Good."

Jack turned away from him then, and with a sigh, Wesley did the same. _Rogue Demon Hunter_, he reminded himself. _I can make something of that_. Sunnydale, the Watchers' Council—that was all behind him now. The future, on the other hand—well, he hadn't managed to bungle that yet.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce smiled and stepped onto the train with his back straight and his head held high.


End file.
